


With Only Dreams of You

by justanothersong



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-07 23:17:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanothersong/pseuds/justanothersong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary smiled, thinking she must have stumbled upon an old love letter. She knew Uncle Dean had been famous in his youth, an actor during the glamour age of Hollywood, and spent much time away from his young wife. Surely it couldn’t hurt to read it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Only Dreams of You

Mary Winchester was fourteen years old and spending the first day of the first spring break of her high school career cleaning out her great uncle’s spare bedroom and how pathetic was her life? She supposed it wasn’t the worst of all things, in the long run, but the girls were going to the mall and maybe to get some frozen yogurt and Mary was stuck in the stuffy old house, elbow deep in sheet music and letters and photos that were antiques before she was even born!

It wasn’t that she didn’t like Uncle Dean. It was quite the opposite, really; in fact, all of her memories of Uncle Dean were fantastic, the lively old man playing an active role in her life until three or so years ago, when he had grown suddenly sullen and quiet, and stopped coming to family events. Mary knew that he was dying; her father, her Grandpa Jesse, and her Great Grandpa Sam spoke about it in hushed tones when they thought she couldn’t hear, and had begun in recent days trying to prepare her for what was coming. She had been lucky and never lost anyone before, not until now. Not until the last stroke made it impossible for Uncle Dean to stay in his home, not until they had taken him to a cold and sterile room at the hospice center and the days began to slowly tick away.

Mary did her best to ignore the tears that came unbidden, pretending for a moment that it was simply her disappointment in spending her day this way that was really bothering her. Not knowing that Uncle Dean would be gone soon, that he she would never see the mischievous twinkle in his green eyes again when he’d slip a whoopee cushion into Grandpa Sam’s chair, or see the little smile that would play on his features when a pretty song came on the radio, no doubt remembering Auntie Lis, who Mary had never met.

Uncle Dean may not have been himself in recent years, but having him changed was better than having him gone.

 

Mary sighed and picked up another letter, wondering what she was supposed to do with these things. They seemed too well cared for to just toss out, but there was little sense to how they were stored, thrown haphazard in ancient suitcases and cardboard boxes, stacked in the spare room that had become a catchall for anything Uncle Dean didn’t want to throw away.

The letter in her hand was on yellowed paper, printed with the dark blue logo of a New York City hotel and covered in neatly sloped handwriting. 

“My dear boy,” it began, “How long it has been since I last touched your face.”

Mary smiled, thinking she must have stumbled upon an old love letter. She knew Uncle Dean had been famous in his youth, an actor during the glamour age of Hollywood, and spent much time away from his young wife. Surely it couldn’t hurt to read it?

“Went to the pictures just to-night, Daph insisted, and they played that song we know so well. ‘What’ll I do when you are far away and I am blue?’ It’s really our song, isn’t it though? We had a whole balcony box to ourselves and all I could think is that it should be you there beside me.

“My time in New York is almost through, the play has nearly finished its run, and then I’ll come out to Hollywoodland and find you again. Yours, always and only, Cas.”

Eyes blinked open wider and Mary’s jaw dropped open. Hanging on to love letters was a sweet thing to do, but from someone other than your wife? Curiosity and romance swirled around Mary’s mind, and she began searching the box she had been poking through for more of the same handwriting. It wasn’t long before she was spotting it in droves, letters and postcards tied together with twine, telegrams and even old photographs interspersed.

One photograph caught her attention; Uncle Dean stood side by side with another man, similar in height but slimmer in build, with a shock of mess dark hair and eyes that seemed light even in the sepia tone photo. Uncle Dean looked much like the other old photographs she had seen of him, if perhaps a little younger, all neatly combed hair and flirty grin. They were leaning against the front bumper of an old-fashioned car, each with a cigar in hand, and the opposite arms thrown over each other’s shoulders. Mary flipped the photo, but finding no notation on the back, she set it aside to continue her search.

“My dear boy,” the next letter read, and Mary smiled, realizing this must have been a term of endearment common from the mysterious Cas. “I have only just left you to board this train and still all I can dream of is when I might see you again. Our gentleman’s jaunts have grown so few in recent months; surely we can escape to Paris for a time in the spring?

“The day already grows long without you. To think I woke to see your sweet face across my pillow this morning, only to leave you behind once again. When will this end, Dean?

“I will be in Chicago for Lis Brandt’s New Year’s soiree. I only hope I shall find you there before midnight strikes. Yours, forever and on, Cas.”

“Whoa,” Mary muttered aloud, shaking her head of soft blonde waves quietly to herself. ‘Lis Brandt’ was her Auntie Lis’ stage name, made simpler and shorter than her born ‘Braedon’ for the silver screen. Whoever Cas was, Uncle Dean had been spending a lot of time with her… waking up with her… while he already knew Auntie Lis! It was like something out of trashy novel, and Mary had to know more.

The next slip of paper out of the box was an aged telegram, and Mary could feel the hurt and coldness coming from the short words on the page.

“Heard about the wedding. My best to you and Lis,” it read, short angry lines. It was simply signed “Cas” this time, no promises of forever added in the closing. Mary shook her head; how could Uncle Dean hurt Cas, who had written him such wonderful words? They must have been in love. It didn’t make any sense.

The writing in the next letter was a bit messy and the ink ran in faded blue splotches here and there, making Mary wonder if it was the writer or the reader of the missive who had been shedding tears. Perhaps both, she thought.

“My dear boy,” it read, “Though I suppose I should not call you that any longer? Daph was never having my child, in spite of what you may have heard. I can only hope it was in response to this supposed betrayal that you did what you did. She was angry and she knows of you; not of your name but of your existence, the way you dwell heavy in my heart, always. The way you have taken my soul so completely as to leave nothing behind for her to grasp.

“I have told you time and again my reasons for marrying Daphne, and though some vicious rumor and the specter of jealousy may lead you to believe otherwise, I love her no more than I could love a sister. All I am, all I have ever been, is yours.

“I have received an invitation to your housewarming party, and I can only assume that was the misguided doings of your bride, who has always thought us the best of friends. I will not burden you with my presence, unless you should say otherwise. One word from you and I will be there with bells on. Yours, Cas.”

There was another folded telegram in the box, and when Mary unfolded it, she could see it was one that her uncle had sent rather than received. It was addressed to a “C. James” at the New Yorker Hotel, on Eighth Avenue in New York City. There was one word there, simply stating “Come”, and it was signed only “D”. 

On the back was a handwritten note; apparently Cas had been excited enough by the telegram to draft a response on the back and send it off right away, writing in the now familiar sloping script, “With bells on, my love!”, and presumably sending it back.

 

The letters went on and on, and Mary found herself wrapped up in this tale of her great uncle and his long lost love, someone married before they had met, someone that Uncle Dean couldn’t be with. It broke her heart a little, not only for how her uncle must have suffered and hurt, but also for the great aunt she had never met, who had been in what looked to be a loveless marriage. Still, all of the pieces hadn’t quite fallen into place, until Mary found a letter tied to an old newspaper clipping.

“Please forgive me, Dean,” the letter had read, that same handwriting that filled the rest of the box. “Daph has put up with much from me over the years and never said a word. This was all she asked of me. I wanted to tell you but I was too afraid. I love you, I love you, I love you. Please don’t turn away from me.”

The clipping was from an entertainment page of an old newspaper, and it put the last pieces of the puzzle together for Mary to form an image she had never expected.

“WORLD FAMOUS COMPOSER AND WIFE WELCOME BABY BOY,” said the headline. “Broadway darling composer Cas James and his childhood sweetheart bride, Daphne Allen, welcomed their first child this past Saturday evening in New York City. The bouncing baby boy is called Gabriel; he and his mother are faring well. Proud papa is said to be overjoyed.”

Mary’s hands dove back into the box, searching out more photographs, and she soon discovered that while a few pictures were of her uncle and her Grandpa Sam, most were of Uncle Dean and the dark haired stranger from the first she found. There were dozens, beginning when they were both young, set in sepia tone and black and white, moving towards faded and yellowed color shots when both had grey streaking their hair and lines appearing on their faces.

On a hunch, Mary went back to the pages she had tossed out of the box when she opened it, newspaper she thought was simple there to protect whatever was beneath it, and she let out a short gasp that drew tears to her eyes when she found what she had been looking for. The first sheet of newspaper had indeed been nothing of significance, but the one underneath was a page of death notices, with a large photograph of the man from her uncle’s photos featured center on the sheet and dated just three years prior.

“BROADWAY COMPOSER DIES AT 92”, the death notice announced. “Cas James, musician and composer of film and stage fame, died yesterday at the age of 92 of a cerebral hemorrhage in Lutheran General Hospital. At his bedside were his son, Gabriel James (Kali), granddaughter Rachel Novak and her husband John, and great-grandson Michael Novak. 

“Mr. James collapsed at home on Monday and was taken by ambulance to Lutheran General, where he was kept on life support until family could arrive.

“The composer began his career in New York at the young age of 22 with the hit Broadway musical ‘Catch a Falling Star’, and went on to score many further films and stage plays. Mr. James was preceded in death by his wife, Daphne Allen, and granddaughter Anna James.

“Family asks that in lieu of flowers, donations be sent to PFLAG and To Write Love on Her Arms, as per the wishes of Mr. James. There will be no public services.”

 

Mary quietly packed up all of the notices, telegrams, letters, and photographs she had found, carefully putting them back into their neat little bundles and moving them from the old cardboard box into an old train case that latched shut and had a sturdy handle. Grandpa Sam had said that Uncle Dean would want her to keep anything she thought important to her, and she felt someone ought to remember the love story she had found.

The first photograph, the one of Uncle Dean young and smiling with his arm around Cas, Mary slipped into her pocket, carrying it and the train case home with her.

 

Three days later, Mary slipped quietly into her uncle’s hospice room. He had been in and out of consciousness since arriving, and she didn’t expect him to wake at her presence, but she felt she should be there. It had only taken a quick internet search to find the name of the song that Cas had kept referring to in his letters, and one brief iTunes transaction later, Mary had Lena Horne crooning the melancholy lyrics into the room while her father fought with a vending machine down the hall for a cup of coffee.

“Hi Uncle Dean,” Mary said softly. “I hope you’re not mad, but I read your letters… your letters from Cas. I know all about him now, about you… about what you couldn’t have. I just… I just wanted you to know that it’s okay now, if you want to let go. I think that, maybe, wherever we go after all this, y’know… I think wherever people go, he’s waiting. He’s waiting for you, Uncle Dean, and you don’t have to hold back anymore.”

She slipped the photograph into her uncle’s hand, crying a little now even as she did it. It just wasn’t fair. Not when she could see, just through their letters, how much they had loved one another. Not when they had to spend their whole lives apart. It just wasn’t right.

“Grandpa Sam says you’re stubborn, that’s why you keep holding on like this,” she said with a short laugh, brushing away her tears with a balled up fist. “Maybe that’s it, or maybe you’re just… you’re still mad, maybe? About him leaving you. About him leaving first. Dad says Grandpa Sam was like that for a long time soon, after Grandma died.”

Mary sniffled. “But you don’t have to be angry now. You can let go. He’s waiting for you, Uncle Dean. I know he is.”

 

Somewhere in the night, Dean let go. 

He was surprised to open his eyes and feel whole, and to find himself walking down a peaceful dirt road under the gleaming sunshine of a beautiful day. Looking down at his hands, Dean smiled to see them strong and clear, no age spots or wrinkles or crippled gnarled arthritic fingers. He felt young and a live and wonderful, and though he didn’t know where he was going, he knew he was heading the right way. 

When the road gave way to a cobbled path and the grassy fields around him to trees and shade, he spotted an old wooden bandstand just ahead, sitting alongside a sparkling blue pond, just the color of a set of eyes he hadn’t seen in years. Standing here on the weathered wooden planks of the bandstand was just the man, younger and stronger than the withered and broken body that Dean had seen curled up in a hospital bed just three years before.

“Cas?” he called, unable to keep the excitement from his voice. The man turned and grinned when he saw him, waving as Dean broke into a run to meet him.

He felt those strong familiar arms wrap around him and for once in his life, Dean wasn’t ashamed of the tears streaming down his face. He pressed his forehead to Cas’ and laughed almost hysterically, not quite believing that he would get to have this now, after the long life he’d shared with his family and a woman who had known all along that he couldn’t really love her as she had wanted.

“Is it really you?” Dean whispered.

Cas laughed and nodded, wiping away his own tears. “It’s me. It’s me, oh, my dear boy, it’s me. I’ve been waiting for you, seems like forever.”

“Where are we?” Dean asked, glancing around. Night was falling quickly around them, but the bandstand began to glow beneath hundreds of twinkling lights suspended in the air, and around them the strains of their song could be heard.

“Does it matter?” Cas replied, and they fell into step together, still wrapped in each other’s arms as they danced and brushed their lips together, so full of joy and peace that they could be dancing on the moon for all they cared.

“As long as you’re here,” Dean whispered back.

Cas smiled and closed his eyes, resting his head on Dean’s shoulder as their song played on. “Always,” he agreed.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the letters of Cole Porter.  
> Song "What'll I Do" can be heard here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DID9ruqhzUA
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](http://literatec.tumblr.com), if you wish.
> 
> Please do not add this, or any of my posted works, to Goodreads. Thank you.


End file.
